The Alchemists' Council, page 2
“Long live the Alchemists’ Council,” she responded. Along with him, she folded her steepled fingers into two mirrored fists, holding the second position slightly longer than usual as she contemplated her hands poised in symbolic gesture of the Lapis.
The next day, Cedar woke before dawn, dressed quickly, and walked silently through the muted light of the hallways to the Scriptorium. By the time she arrived, four Lapidarian Scribes were already at work, presumably inscribing onto parchment the Novillian visions dictated by Obeche a few days earlier. One of them — Katsura — smiled, head slightly bowed, to acknowledge the arrival of a Novillian Scribe and then, unabashedly, held up a bottle of ink, shaking it slightly, indicating to Cedar that it was almost empty. Cedar nodded, wondering if Katsura could sense her annoyance at being hurried. She would replenish the ink as soon as possible; surely, as a Lapidarian Scribe, Katsura understood that Cedar could not begin her work before the first ray of sun entered the Scriptorium. She knelt on a blue velvet cushion beside the Lapis closest to the spot where, based on the astrological principles of Council dimension, the sun’s light would first illuminate the Quintessence on this particular day. Her timing could not have been more perfect; the moment she had finished reciting the “Cauda Pavonis” — the ritual chant used to prime the Lapis for the scraping of its essence — a patch of light appeared precisely where Cedar had calculated. With a ruby-bladed knife, Cedar began to scrape the Lapis methodically, allowing the dust of its essence to fall into the small emerald bowl she held in her other hand. The Lapis itself controls the amount of dust it releases on any given day. Today Cedar had scraped for only two minutes before the Lapis would yield no further. She pressed her fingers into the temporary abrasion she had created, silently expressing her gratitude to the Lapis for its perpetual abundance. One of the Azoths would ensure the healing of the abrasion later that day.
Cedar walked to the desk where Katsura worked.
“What colour do you require?” she asked.
“Indigo,” replied Katsura.
Indigo, thought Cedar. What are the chances that today’s dust will manifest indigo?
She moved to the corner of the Scriptorium that housed a slate table and small fountain. Using one of the dedicated horsehair brushes and a glass funnel, she carefully moved the dust from the emerald bowl into an ink bottle. She then added channel water from the fountain and carefully stirred the mixture with a thin gold rod before corking the bottle. She held the newly minted mixture up to the light and awaited the revelation of its colour.
“Azure,” she called out to Katsura. “Will azure do?”
“No,” replied Katsura. “I will go check the storehouse for indigo.”
“I will take the azure,” said Ela.
Cedar passed the bottle to Ela on her way out of the Scriptorium. As she walked from the main Council building to her office, Cedar thought about Sadira. Would she forgive me if she knew the truth of my conjunction with Saule? Can forgiveness ever displace betrayal?
Cedar waited in a window bay of the Council Chambers. For now, she was alone, thankful that the other Council members were, she presumed, sleeping soundly in the residence across the courtyard. She dared herself to move from her window seat to the throne. Surely the Azoth Magen would not mind. Yet even in the knowledge that no one would discover or punish such an indiscretion, Cedar could not bring herself to break protocol. She remained seated, momentarily transfixed by the icons of Sol and Luna glistening above the throne in the light of the Dragon’s Breath. The flames were so radiant that the murals of the Mutus Liber on the north wall seemed to glow. Such was the custom on each of the three nights leading to a Meeting of Decision: the Dragon’s Breath will illumine both Sol and Luna for three and three, before and after, above and below. And such was Cedar’s custom to contemplate the icons and murals of the room on the night before any significant event, Meeting of Decision or otherwise. Contemplation encouraged her to clear her mind of all but necessity.
“Are you thinking of me?” he said.
“Ruis!”
“I startled you.”
“I was—”
“Contemplating the icons. Just like before your conjunction. Perhaps it’s true, what they say — only your colour has changed,” he said.
“Do not joke, Ruis. I cannot bear it. Not tonight.”
He moved towards her.
“Cedar, you have nothing to fear. I predict this particular Meeting of Decision will result in the preservation of the status quo. The bees will remain safely ensconced in the apiary.”
“That is what I fear! We do not agree on this matter, Ruis. If Council decides not to release the bees — all the bees — the outside world could fail beyond measure.”
“And if Council were to release all the bees, Council dimension could fail beyond measure. And where would that leave either dimension in years to come? Besides, we are at least a decade away from imminent crisis in the outside world.”
“A decade away! Ruis! The Council should have worked to resolve the crisis permanently decades ago. Too much independence has been given to the people of the outside world. Ever since the Vulknut Eclipse—”
“Not the Vulknut Eclipse again, Cedar! Enough! As you well know, if not for Rebel Branch interference, we would all — alchemists, rebels, and people alike — be living happily ever after right now, free eternally from Meetings of Decision!”
Cedar stopped arguing. She knew better than to try to convince Ruis that making a bad decision was better than having no decision to make at all. With that realization, she was grateful she at least still maintained the ability to choose.
“All this talk of bees,” said Ruis, taking advantage of Cedar’s silence. “Remember our days in the lavender fields of the apiary?” He stepped closer and reached for her pendant, holding it gently in his right hand. She could feel the Elixir respond.
“Ruis. Don’t.”
“Come back to my room with me.”
“No. Not tonight.” Cedar moved away from him, towards the main entrance, and adjusted her hair under the hood of her robes.
“Nothing has changed.”
“Everything has changed,” she replied.
“‘I think it mercy, if thou wilt forget.’”
She shook her head and smiled.
“‘Death,’” she quoted, for this was the literary game they had played long ago when they had fallen in love, “‘thou shalt die!’”
“That’s the plan,” he said. He turned and walked slowly out of the room.
I
current day
“The bees are disappearing.”
“Protocol, Cedar. I am Azoth,” replied Ruis.
He looked down at her from his position on the library platform. He held a manuscript against his chest. Several others lay open on the desk below. The light from the east window shone on the illuminations.
“Even the Azoth Magen permits me to call him Ailanthus,” she responded.
“But you don’t,” he reminded her. He walked down the steps from the platform and stood beside her. “You never know who might be listening — an impressionable Initiate might well be seated within hearing distance.” He paused briefly before quietly adding, “Besides, as you well know, Scribe Cedar, you and I no longer share the level of intimacy we once did.”
“Forgive me, your Eminence.” She waited until he had taken his seat at the desk and nodded his permission for her to speak. “Azoth Ruis,” she began, “Junior Magistrate Linden has reported that the bees are disappearing.”
“If this news is leading to another request to release more Lapidarian bees into the outside world, the answer is no. The bees must be left to mature as scheduled prior to discharge. Contrary to rebellious sentiments, Cedar, the Council is not responsible for the earth’s destruction. Our very doctrine ensures its preservation. And we will do so on schedule as Council protocols dictate.”
“Not those bees, your Eminence. Though the Council should—”
“The Council should . . . ?”
“Apologies, Azoth. I do not mean to suggest . . .” Cedar paused here, reading Ruis’s expression. Though she did question Council’s more recent decisions regarding elemental dissolution and preservation, now was not the time to broach the matter. “Azoth, I refer to the bees of certain Lapidarian manuscripts, not to the bees of the apiary or of the outside world — though, of course, the manuscript anomalies may well lead to unforeseeable effects.”
“The point, Cedar.”
“Yes, Azoth. During his current assignment, Linden was conducting manuscript transcription in the library of the Vienna protectorate when he witnessed bees disappearing from an illumination.”
“Which manuscript?”
“Ruach 2103, folio 51 verso. He was transcribing the icons to use in a Senior Initiate lesson. He counted five bees amidst the roses — suddenly he saw them vibrating and then three disappeared. Then, only minutes later, he witnessed the same phenomenon in Viridarium Chymicum 3204, folio 43 recto.”
“What are you suggesting, Cedar — that they flew away?”
“I do not know, your Eminence.”
“Perhaps Linden was fatigued. Perhaps his Elixir fluctuated. Perhaps the Senior Initiates are up to their pranks again.”
“Linden was observing the bees, and they vanished.” Cedar waited for Ruis to reply, but he moved his attention to one of the manuscripts before him. “Azoth, Linden believes this is a sign. He requests Council intervention.”
“A sign of what?” He stood up, turned, and walked to a manuscript cabinet set into an alcove behind the desk.
“Should this determination not be left to the Elders?” asked Cedar.
“A sign of what, according to Linden? Surely manuscript speculation is not beyond the skills of a Junior Magistrate.”
Cedar waited until Ruis had taken his seat once again. The dark green velvet of his robes made him appear even paler than usual.
“A sign, according to Linden, of the Rebel Branch. A sign of an impending rebellion. A sign of an attempt to disrupt elemental balance and increase negative space.”
Ruis sighed. “I hardly think the Rebel Branch would trouble itself with removing bees from manuscripts — unless, of course, its members are hoping to distract the lesser Magistrates from appropriate Council business.”
“With all due respect, Azoth, bees do not simply disappear without reason. Aside from the potential of rebel involvement, this situation requires investigation.”
“Very well, Cedar. Investigate. First, rule out Initiate pranks; then, bring me additional evidence. Find out if more manuscripts have been affected.”
“Yes, Azoth,” Cedar replied. “However, if the bees have already disappeared, finding evidence will be difficult. The cross-referencing alone could take years.”
“Then I suggest you begin immediately.”
“Is later tonight immediate enough? Linden is due to return to Council dimension by sundown. Or would you prefer I join him for lunch in the Vienna protectorate?”
“Perhaps you should consider where you might gather the sweetest honey.” Ruis smirked, retrieved one of the smaller manuscripts from the desk, and left the room.
Cedar did not follow. Instead, she walked to a window on the library’s west wall and peered out into the main courtyard. Sadira sat near the fountain where she was writing in a small notebook. Her long golden hair shimmered in the light. She appeared as beautiful and serene today as she had all those years ago when Cedar was first drawn to her. She glanced up and noticed Cedar at the window. Cedar nodded, held up her pendant briefly, and then retreated from the window into the depths of the library’s myriad stacks of manuscripts. Though her choice might have appeared random and sudden to an outside observer, Cedar knew precisely which manuscript to remove from precisely which shelf. Thus, with one to be compared with others, her work began.
Cedar sat in the lower levels of the Council archives reading through yellowed but well-preserved notes she herself had taken years ago as part of a Senior Initiate assignment.
Sursum Deorsum 5055, folio 63 verso
Under the two attached vessels is another such vessel diagram accompanied by Latin text describing the Rebis. Near the bottom of first panel is a dragon with its head tilted back; lunar images fill its mouth — three crescents in three colours — with a sun, shining beams of three colours both inside and expanding beyond the sun itself, in the centre of which is the following image —
Following several obscurely worded and poorly scripted sentences, Cedar had depicted what she now assumed to be a barely recognizable replica of the original image: three conjoined circles surrounding a bee. Serendipitous, she thought, that a nearly forgotten task performed on her road out of the Initiate towards the Magistrate would prove useful now. She opened the original manuscript, attained earlier from the library, to folio 63 and examined the pristine Lapidarian illumination thereon. Her own ancient description proved both accurate and useful: the three conjoined circles within the manuscript no longer housed a bee. Could these lacunae indeed be rebel activity of which she remained unaware? Perhaps she should not have spoken to Ruis before seeking answers for herself. Doing so may have been imprudent, all circumstances considered. On the other hand, not doing so may have been equally imprudent. Regardless, with additional evidence now in her hands, she would undoubtedly need to convene the Elders.
In the meantime, she would need to leave Council dimension to investigate in the outside world as soon as possible, with or without the Azoth’s approval. Novillian status afforded her some license. Leaving Council dimension without giving notice or receiving permission was a privilege in which she had indulged since becoming an Elder; she could come and go as she pleased, whether or not engaged in official Council business. Another trip to Vienna, regardless of her stated intention, could prove useful.
Amur walked into the room, stopped in front of the first cabinet, and motioned to Cedar. She returned the archival material to its case, replaced the case on the shelf, collected her current notes, and followed Amur into the hall.
“We have a meeting,” he said.
“I have nothing to report.”
“Nothing to create. Nothing to destroy. All to transform,” he reminded her.
“I prefer the version without the sentence fragments,” Cedar responded and walked towards the stairs.
“Meet me in the Scriptorium at six,” he said and walked the other way.
Cedar could see it if she gazed to the left, as the angle of light fell onto the Lapis from the northwest window of the Scriptorium just before dusk: the Flaw in the Stone, the fleck of absence within alchemical perfection that prevented absolute, permanent union. Yet they all yearned — or professed to yearn — to be united forever as One in the ultimate Final Ascension. Official records of the 17th Council indicate the achievement of such perfection for a period of three days during the Vulknut Eclipse. If not for the Rebel Branch, the Lapis would have remained perfected until this very day. But the rebels had successfully wounded its core once again, an ultimate act of treason during the Third Rebellion. Ruis’s desire, as Azoth of the 18th Council, was to re-establish perfection of the Lapis. “One day, when you have ascended to Azoth yourself, we will work on this task together,” he had all but decreed to her. Of course, his assertion assumed not only that she aspired to Azoth but also that she desired to help him, two assumptions that were contrary to her current will. Surviving conjunction had been challenging enough to her ethics. As for Ruis, she had loved him once, had welcomed his power, but had more recently observed his abuses.
“It’s time,” Amur said. He was standing in the southern archway, oblivious to the part he would play in Cedar’s plan. She glanced at him with affection. He did not deserve to be the sacrificial lamb. Still, when the time came, she would bear no guilt or remorse.
“I’ll follow you,” she replied, holding her pendant against the Lapis to enjoy a momentary surge of Quintessence before joining him.
“It’s your fault, you know,” Amur whispered as they walked towards Council Chambers.
“My fault?”
“The agenda has been lengthened yet again — an item about bees.”
“So, his Eminence has taken me seriously after all.”
“It would be best not to let Azoth Ruis hear the sarcasm.”
“The wise Amur.”
Knowing that Amur had long harboured an attraction to her that could prove useful to her someday, Cedar brushed against his back as she moved past him and into her Council seat.
Jaden, from her hard wooden seat in the Initiate sector, watched Cedar and Amur enter Council Chambers and assume their positions on the ornate chairs among the other Novillian Scribes. She expected Amur’s conjunction would be on the agenda. Perhaps he will be the one, someone would say. Perhaps he will enact sine macula. Perhaps he will remove the Flaw from the Stone. Perhaps. But Jaden did not care about conjunctive outcome as much as she cared about conjunctive partnership. A rumour had reached the Junior Initiates this week that Senior Magistrate Sadira had been selected as Amur’s partner. To Jaden, Amur’s fate was of little consequence; Sadira’s was not. Sadira was the only Magistrate whose classes Jaden could tolerate. What if she conjoined with Amur and they kept his position in the Order? What if Sadira’s days as a Magistrate were hurtling towards their end?
Though she had disliked having to sit through this morning’s classes with Magistrate Tesu as tutor, Jaden was pleased Sadira had left Council dimension on assignment for the day. Surely an official announcement of her conjunction could not be made in her absence. At this very moment, Sadira was enjoying the freedom of the outside world — in London or Paris or New York or wherever she had been sent to meet the new Initiate. Perhaps she was sitting in a café, sipping espresso, contemplating how best to approach the Initiate. These imagined scenarios proved a far more satisfying pastime than official Council business and its interminable deliberations. Apparently bees were on today’s agenda. The previous time bees were an agenda item a lengthy debate ensued; more than two hours later, the dilemma had remained unresolved. To release or not to release? Jaden cared little about the question. If they all disappeared, she thought cynically, the debates would be moot.
